Poisoned Smog
by ko-writes
Summary: Prompt: Mycroft from another dimension is transported to canon London. Mycroft is scarred, starving, overly lean, and looks like some type of freedom fighter. The country he lives in (or most of the world) is in some kind of dystopian hell-hole. Think post-dystopia and nearly a complete collapse or about to be a complete collapse of civility and the government.
1. Chapter 1

He was starving and confused... Mainly confused, but pretty hungry, too. It had all... changed. What on earth was going on?

He just had to retrace his steps. He was with Sherlock, running from that fucking Lestrade, and then... He was here. A step was missing from his memory.

How was this possible? Where was Sherlock? Where was John? Where was Molly? Where was Anthea? He was alone.

It was different here. The air was cleaner, the colours brighter, the scents sweeter - and they were so sweet, there was a bakery around here somewhere. He'd only ever seen one once.

What was he doing? He had to get back - Sherlock and the others needed him. But - but... food...

Where is your sense of duty, man?!

Right. The others. Get back to Baker Street, they'll be there.

"John, it's not my fault!" Sherlock?

"It is! You gave Anderson a black eye!" John?

"He disserved it!" That's definitely Sherlock...

"Sherlock! John!" He called, running towards the voices.

"Was that your brother?" John? What was he saying? They were together not five minutes ago.

"I'm not sure..." Sherlock? What the hell was he talking about?

He leapt over the fence easily and stumbled towards them. Stupid leg.

"Mycroft?!" Sherlock exclaimed. They were gaping at him and, hell, he stared back. Sherlock's hair was long and he was wearing expensive clothes and John was in a jumper! John Watson... in a jumper. It didn't compute.

He tugged at his tattered bandana around his neck - the white and black checked one - and pulled down the sleeves of his brown long-sleeved t-shirt. His jeans were torn and caked in mud, along with his top, and his black combat boots had seen better days - but he always looked like that. He shrugged his stained, grey rucksack higher on his shoulder - he needed to keep it with him, it had his gas mask and meagre ration of water in.

"What?" He questioned, scowling, "I hope you two bastards can explain because, motherfucking Christ, I'm so confused. I leave you for two sodding minutes and -!" He gestured futilely around the street, "And why aren't you John, you son of a bitch, with Anthea and Molly?! I gave you clear fucking instructions! Go back to 221 Baker street and look after them! Are you that much of a bloody twat!?" They both stared at him like he'd grown an extra head, "And you, Sherlock; I look away for one fucking second and you just disappear! Remember what happened last time? Now, you little shit of a brother, you're going to help me get back because - for once - I have no idea where the fuck I am. Savour that! Now, which way?"

"To where?" Sherlock asked cautiously. John just stared, looking shell-shocked -

Stop using that sodding word.

"Baker street, of course!" Mycroft snapped.

"John, forget Lestrade; we have a new case."

"What?! Lestrade?! What the hell were you doing around that backstabbing bastard!?" he demanded, moving into Sherlock's personal space and glaring daggers at him.

"A very interesting case..."


	2. Chapter 2

He frowned at the interior of 221 Baker street. This wasn't it. This wasn't even Baker street! There was no decomposition, no rubbish lining the streets, no gallows, no guillotine, no yellow sky and thick, black, poisonous smog.

"This isn't it," he growled, "It can't be!"

"Why isn't it Mycroft?" Sherlock asked.

"Because it looks like a clean zone and Baker Street is anything but a clean zone," Mycroft glared, "You two are up to something..."

"Mycroft, come inside," Sherlock urged, stepping through a door that happened to have '221' nailed on it in brass letters. This wasn't even 221! 221 had graffiti and bare, crumbling brickwork. 221 did not have brass numbers, Sherlock spray painted them on with yellow paint!

"Where the fuck are we Sherlock?" He questioned. He'd never lost his way before, but now he had and everything was different!

"Mycroft? This is 221," John frowned.

"No, it isn't," Mycroft countered.

"Mycroft, this is where I live with John and Mrs Hudson," Sherlock explained.

"Sherlock, two things; firstly, we all live here; Molly, Anthea, John, you and I; and secondly, who the hell is Mrs Hudson?" Mycroft questioned.

Sherlock and John looked confused. "Mrs Hudson; our landlady. Sixty years old, short brown hair; any idea?" Sherlock asked.

"Sixty? Who ever reaches sixty years old?" Mycroft shrugged.

Why did John and Sherlock look so crestfallen?

"Come on Mycroft, we'll get you some food," John offered, "You look starved."

He didn't need to listen after the word 'food'. Mycroft was in through the door as soon as it was unlocked.

"Mycroft, slow down," John cautioned.

"To be fair to myself, I haven't eaten in a week," Mycroft called from upstairs.

John and Sherlock followed him, sharing a confused glance.


	3. Chapter 3

John placed a bowl of broth and some buttered bread in front of Mycroft, who dove into it indignantly. He crammed as much as he could into his mouth before chewing and gulping it down.

The greasy butter smeared his lips and cheeks as he gorged; tearing the bread and hunching over it protectively, like a feral animal.

"Slow down, Mycroft," John advised, placing hand on the elder brother's shoulder.

"Sorry," he apologised, still chewing a mouthful, "Haven't had food in a while..." He swallowed and aimed a calculating look at the pair. They were better fed, cleaner (he hadn't had a wash in a month, Sherlock two, John three), dressed differently. "Something happened to me didn't it? Oh crap, this is just a delusion, isn't it? I finally snapped."

"What?" John frowned.

"I'm locked in my mind again, I'm sure," Mycroft smiled, bordering on manic, "You can only be in so many explosions before you crack. And I've been in shit loads."

"Mycroft, what's going on?" Sherlock asked, the most concerned he had been for his brother in years.

"It all started with you, you little fuck," Mycroft seethed at Sherlock, "God knows you delete some stupid shit, but I honestly thought you'd keep that!"

"What are you talking about Mycroft?" John questioned.

"The day I got blown up for you!" Mycroft yelled at Sherlock, "I lost my fucking leg for you, Sherlock!"

Sherlock's face couldn't have dropped any lower if he tried.

* * *

_Sherlock was seven, he was fourteen. They had been without mummy and father for two years. They'd been walking all that time, going from clean zone to clean zone, trying to find one that would take two orphans. As intuitive and bright as they were, they would never be accepted, Mycroft knew that, but they had to try._

_ "I'm hungry, Myc," Sherlock complained. Quite right too, he hadn't eaten in a few days._

_ "Sherlock, there's no food. Everything along the stretch is poisonous. We'll eat when we get to London," Mycroft promised sadly._

_ "How long?" The overly lean child asked. _

_ "Five hours," Mycroft informed, "We have quite a few miles to go..."_

_ "Why aren't you hungry?" Sherlock questioned._

_ "I am, Sherlock. I really am," Mycroft sighed, his stomach growling painfully to illustrate his point._

_ "Look Myc! Blackberries!" Sherlock beamed, pointing at a collection of brambles along a dusty fence. The boy ran towards them._

_ Mycroft thought they were saved, until he noticed a familiar bump in the ground. "SHERLOCK!"_

_ He surged forward, pushing the child away from it. Sherlock got far enough away, but his foot came in contact with the mound. _

_ There was a deafening blast and he cried out in pain._

_ "Myc!" Sherlock cried, running over to him._

_ "Shit! Holly motherfucking shit! My leg!" Mycroft sobbed. It hurt so bad! _

_ "Myc... Where's your penknife..." Sherlock asked reluctantly._

_ "It-it can't be-be that b-bad," Mycroft gasped, chocking down tears and more profanities. _

_ "Myc... Look..." Sherlock bleated. The young boy struggled to help him sit up._

_ His leg, below the knee was horrific. His foot was completely blown off, leaving nothing but charred, gory flesh and he could see his shattered bone. He could see veins of yellow lipids and the tendons that moved what was no longer there. There was so much blood. It hurt like a motherfucking bitch!_

_"Anyone there?!" An unfamiliar voice called, "I heard a blast!"_

_ "Over here!" Sherlock yelled, "It's my brother! Please!"_

_ A ten year old boy ran over the horizon, silhouetted by the sun. "Oh shit!" he swore, "I'm on my way!" _

_ The boy, carrying what looked like a military issue med kit, ran down to him. The Holmes brothers could now see he was wearing dusty old army fatigues stained with blood, turned up at the ankles and elbows, and there was a white band with a red cross - obviously hand-made - to indicate his purpose; his hair was greasy and sandy blonde and there was a green bandana around his neck._

_ "He saved me, I was about to walk over that bomb myself," Sherlock informed._

_ "Let me guess, he dived to knock you out of the way and his foot hit it. Lovely things, minefields," The boy stated, casting an analytical gaze over Mycroft's leg. "Sir?" He addressed Mycroft, "Can you tell me you're name?"_

_ "My-Mycroft Holmes," Mycroft struggled against gritted teeth. _

_ "Alright Mycroft," The boy turned to dig through the med kit, "I'm John Watson, I'm a medic. Can you tell me how old you are?"_

_ "Four-fourteen," Mycroft yelped._

_ "Ok, try and stay calm Mycroft. I'm afraid that you're leg's too badly damaged to save; I'll have to amputate. Just below the knee, I can save the rest," John informed, "I'm going to give you something for the pain. Do I have your consent?"_

_ "Y-yes!"_

_ John readied a syringe, squeezing it as little as possible as not to waste it's contents but enough to avoid air bubbles. He injected it into Mycroft's knee. "Alright, I'm not going to sugar-coat it; this will hurt. Do your best to breathe and it'll be over." John took out a tube of antibacterial gel from the kit and cleaned his hands, then removed a scalpel and a small hand saw. "I'm sorry," he apologised before cutting into Mycroft's flesh._

_ Mycroft cried out. Despite the area being numbed, it still hurt like fuck!_

_ "You're too young to be a medic," Sherlock stated._

_ "I was trained by my dad, I'm not an official medic, that's why I'm here," John informed._

_ "But he's gone now, isn't he? You're wearing his clothes," Sherlock frowned._

_ "I'm good, but I couldn't help him after he was shot in the head," John sighed, "Wish I bloody did. Now I have to hunt for supplies myself."_

_ He finished cutting into Mycroft's leg, "This is going to hurt even more, I really am sorry."_

_ He took the hand saw and sawed the bone as quickly as possible. Mycroft screamed and cried even more; but Sherlock held him steady. "It's alright brother mine."_

_ "Mycroft, I promise you'll be fine. I managed to knick some prosthetics last time I broke into a clean zone, I'll find you the best fit we can manage," John promised. _

_ He broke through the final part of the bone; a clean cut, thank God. He threaded a needle and began sewing as Mycroft's cries died down. "What's your name?" He asked Sherlock._

_ "Sherlock," The youngest brother stated._

_ "Pleased to meet you," John nodded, tying off the end of the thread and biting it to cut it off. "My camp's down there; you'll have to rest until it heals enough to use a prosthetic and you look like you need it."_

_ "We don't have food, closest is London," Sherlock frowned, "I can't make it on my own."_

_ "Lucky I have food, isn't it," John smiled slightly, "You're more than welcome to it. And the beds."_

_ "Why-why are you helping us?" Mycroft panted._

_ "My dad would," John shrugged, looking a little mournful. _

_ The boys helped Mycroft hop down the small hill, avoiding anymore mines, to John's large military tent. The rest was history._

* * *

"Mycroft?" A strong hand on his shoulder roused him from his memories. John. "Your broth's going cold."

He picked up the bowl with both hands and pressed it to his lips. He emptied it in a few gulps and slammed it down, wiping grease from his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Well that's one solution," Sherlock muttered, still a bit dazed.

"Mycroft, why don't you go have a shower? You absolutely reek, no offence," John offered.

"A shower? Cold water isn't that appealing at the moment, thank you; and I had a shower last month," Mycroft dismissed. Sherlock looked like he was going to be sick.

"What about hot water and clean, dry clothes?" John asked.

"Really?!" Mycroft gaped.

"Furthest door on your left, down there," John directed, Mycroft was gone as fast as his leg would let him.

"He might fit your clothes," John began, addressing Sherlock, "I hope that's alright."

Sherlock just nodded.


	4. Chapter 4

"What's going on, Sherlock?" John asked, "Mycroft isn't himself. He's dressing in rags, swearing, hasn't washed in a month and says he lost his leg in an explosion, saving you. Nothing about this makes sense!"

Sherlock still looked a little shocked. "Mycroft's never been in an explosion, and he still has both his legs. He has some scarring on his foot, burns he received from stumbling into hot ash after pushing me away from it; I was distracted on my quest for wild blackberries. So, if he is an amputee, there are only a few possibilities; Mycroft was tortured and his leg was amputated as extreme torture and his mind created an alternate reality to cope - but I don't think it's think that's it, as I happened to be abducted by him a few days ago and he was his usual self, and certainly not starved or an amputee."

John absorbed this information. "Then what's the explanation?"

Sherlock looked thoughtful for a moment before brightening, an idea forming, "Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth," he mumbled before leaping up.

"What is it?" John inquired.

"I've got to text Anthea," Sherlock smirked, grabbing his phone off the kitchen counter.

"Why exactly?" John frowned.

"Don't you think she'd notice if her employer was missing?" Sherlock questioned back, before typing out the message: _M is here if you're looking for him - SH_

"So you think Anthea knows what's going on?" John clarified.

"Yes," Sherlock nodded.

_I think you've made a mistake, Mr Holmes Jr. - A_

_M with me in his office - A_

_Should I come? - A_

Sherlock huffed. _All under control. No need to come - SH_

_Too bad, M says not optional. ETA: 20 mins - A_

Sherlock sighed in annoyance, "I was hoping to avoid this..."

"Avoid what?"

"Anthea is coming, and she's bringing my brother with her."

John spluttered, "B-but, if Mycroft's with her, then this one must be an imposter!"

"I doubt that," Sherlock huffed, "Why would someone make themselves look like him, then dress and act completely out of character?"

John had to admit, he had a point. "I'll put the kettle on..."

* * *

True to Anthea's word, twenty minutes later, a fairly better turned-out Mycroft burst through the door. "Sherlock, are you high? What's going on?" he interrogated.

"It's fine Mycroft; I needed Anthea's assistance in a case and she misunderstood and overreacted," Sherlock dismissed.

"Sir, his statement implied he was hallucinating and/or delusional," Anthea informed.

Mycroft turned to John, who looked like he'd seen a ghost. He vaguely realised the shower being run in the background before it was switched off. "One of your female companions, John?"

"No," John replied.

"If either of you could tell me what's going on here -"

"John, thanks for the that," The familiar voice drifted down the hall, "And thanks for the clothes, Sherlock."

And then, there were two Mycrofts in the room.

"You're... You're..." The Government stuttered.

"Holly shit!" The freedom fighter swore, "I really have cracked! Wait... Anthea?! What happened to your face?!"

Anthea was pale and could only reply with a "Huh?"

"Your eye! You aren't blind in it anymore! And your scars are gone!"

* * *

_John and Sherlock sat by his bedside as he lay there in pain._

_John unscrewed a bottle of vodka and passed it to him. "There we are, should help a bit," he shrugged._

_Mycroft had never drank vodka in his life, but the pain was so bad he chugged it down desperately._

_"Easy now," John snatched the bottle from him, "I don't want to treat you for alcohol poisoning too." John wiped the top of the bottle with his sleeve and took a swig himself._

_"Aren't you too young to drink that?" Sherlock sniffed._

_"My shoulder hurts," John muttered, "I got shot."_

_"How?" Sherlock questioned._

_"I tried to stop my dad being executed. It didn't work; I got shot and thrown out of the clean zone to be eaten by predators. It's a good thing dad taught me to be a medic..."_

_"We won't __**get**__ accepted," Sherlock informed, "We're on our way to London. Our family used to know someone in Bakerstreet - so we'll have somewhere to stay."_

_A blast broke the conversation. "Fuck!" John swore, grabbing his kit and running out of the tent._

_Sherlock peered out to see John running up the dusty incline; then turned back to Mycroft, who had passed out from the half bottle of vodka. "Thank you, Myc..."_

_Five minutes later, John ran into the tent carrying a small girl in his arms, bridal-style. "Ok Anthea, I'm going to put you on the bed, ok?" He put her down gently._

_Her face was burned and covered in blood; one eye red, raw and bleeding. "Where-where's my sister?" she cried._

_"I couldn't do anything for her..." John informed sadly, "I'm so sorry."_

_"You-you mean sh-she's-she's -"_

_"I'm sorry," John apologised, "I've got to sew you up, ok?"_

_John cleaned the wounds quickly with a red-stained cloth and some more antibacterial gel. She cried and whimpered as the chemicals worked their way into the wound._

_"You're doing really well, Anthea..." John praised, threading a needle and neatly stitching the lacerations. "How old are you?" he asked, cutting the thread._

_"Five," she sniffed._

_"You're a very brave girl for five years old," John commented._

_"I'm not, you __**are**__ brave," John smiled. He took out a small torch from the kit and shone it into her red eye. He frowned and covered her other eye, "Can you see, Anthea?"_

_"No!" The little girl panicked, "I can't see!"_

* * *

The freedom fighter stepped forward and tried to cup Anthea's cheek, but she startled back. "What are you talking about?" She demanded.

"Don't you remember the explosion? Anthea, come on... You've never forgotten anything in your life!"

"I don't know who you think you are; but you're **not** Mycroft Holmes," She muttered darkly.

"Anthea -"

"Who are you?!" She seethed.

Mycroft's face fell. "Mycroft Holmes. Leader of the Bakerstreet Gang, five members; head of the 221 movement, to restore power to the old government, currently involving over one million; Sherlock's brother, and you're adoptive brother," he stated, detached.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Anthea insisted.

"Anthea; you came with me, Sherlock and John after your sister died in the explosion. We went to London, got denied by the clean zone, and went to Bakerstreet; where we met Molly and Irene in 221," Mycroft prompted.

"... How did you know my sister died when I was five?"

"Because I was with Sherlock and John in the tent when the explosion happened. I passed out shortly after that, but when I woke up; John was giving you an eye patch and a bandage, and Sherlock was talking to you about pirates - the little idiot. John told me about it later that evening -"

John looked scandalised, "I'd never do that!"

"You **were** ten at the time," Mycroft (assumed he) reminded, "You took over from your dad."

"Well," The other Mycroft interrupted, "I think we should go. Lovely to meet you, Mr Holmes," Mycroft bid, holding out his hand for his other self to shake.

The freedom fighter glared at him, before spitting on his own hand and clasping the Government's with it.

Sherlock looked amused at his brother's expression as he wiped his soiled hand delicately with a handkerchief. "Goodbye, Sherlock, Dr Watson." The other Mycroft left with Anthea, both more shaken than they'd like to admit.

"I'm getting more and more confused by the minute," John confessed.

"I can't believe Anthea would talk to me like that..." Mycroft frowned.

"Mycroft; can you tell us some of your memories?" Sherlock requested, "And London as you remember it?"

"If you want..."

* * *

Mycroft and Anthea were being driven away from Bakerstreet. "Something is going on," Mycroft contemplated, "Something very strange..."

"Brilliant deduction, sir," Anthea drawled. She turned her gaze away from her Blackberry... to find him gone. "Mr Holmes? Sir?"

There was no where he could have gone...

She addressed the driver, "Take me back to Bakerstreet."


End file.
